


The Universe's Concerto

by WalkerLister



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s12e02 Spyfall Part 2, Softober, i just can't write fluff without writing some angst to go with it, idk if this is actually that fluffy but i tried my best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26840914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkerLister/pseuds/WalkerLister
Summary: 'The Doctor’s fingers, long and spindly, rest over the keys, and Yaz lets her own retreat to her lap, content to watch whatever the other woman is doing. They caress the keys with a familiarity, ghosting over notes that might be played where she to simply press down. Yaz watches carefully, keeping her posture and her expression relaxed and easy, simply waiting, hoping this might be the something that causes the break.'
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 22
Kudos: 44
Collections: Softober





	The Universe's Concerto

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 'softober', I'm not sure how soft this actually is because all I can seem to write is angst, but I tried my best 😅  
> This is set kind of between Spyfall pt. 2 and Orphan 55... it's around then, anyway.  
> Enjoy 😊

Never would Yaz have thought she would find the noises, the thrumming and thriving energy of an alien ship, comforting, but they are in their familiarity, in the wonders and adventures they represent. The Tardis is _alive,_ living and breathing through its mechanisms and its unknowable workings, stretching on forever, and she is honoured enough to call it her home from home, to call its pilot….

Well, how does one describe the Doctor in one word?

She is more to Yaz than words could possibly hope to convey. Yaz herself does not quite understand the depths of her emotions. Sometimes, she dips her feet into the pool, trying to gauge its depths, and before she knows it, she finds herself falling below the surface, thick and fast diving deep to the bottom. She can barely breath for all she feels, limbs moving randomly as she tries to navigate deep waters. She lies awake at night and wonders how to make sense of the impossible, how to love the impossible as she does without being consumed by it every night and day. Sometimes she feels there is nothing to do _but_ be consumed.

There are, however, some things about the Doctor that are very… familiar, touching on almost… human. And it is there where Yaz feels she _could_ do something with all she feels, could harness it into something that shows how deep her affection goes, and right now, she feels the time to do that has come with more immediacy than ever before. A darkness has stalked the Doctor’s heels since a maniac called the Master turned up and almost killed them all, since secrets that have shrouded the Doctor since their first meeting were revealed, reluctantly so, at their questioning, small crumbs of information about _who_ exactly she is. Yaz’s feelings fuel a frustration that she does not know more, that the Doctor will not tell them more, but it is not the Doctor secretiveness which bothers her most at present… it is the shadows in and under her eyes, the way she turns morose when she thinks they do not see. Yaz can recognise something is upsetting her greatly, but the Doctor is like a deer in the headlights at present, and whatever Yaz does, it still does not feel quite enough to bring the woman out of her thoughts.

Something needs to break. They travel, and they save lives, save planets, and they run, harder and faster than ever, but they barely stop to breath, to think, and when they return to the comfort of the Tardis, bodies and minds tired, the Doctor insists they go and rest, hunching over the console, closing herself off. Yaz sits with her sometimes, and she notices the way the tense line eases somewhat, with only her presence, and that soothes the raging feelings in Yaz, quelling stormy water into still current, to know she can offer comfort, even if the Doctor does not say anything. And thus, it gives her an idea as to how to break the pattern they have all gotten themselves into.

The boys agree, Ryan giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder and Graham a nod, grandfatherly compassion for all of them on his face, even for the Doctor, an alien of indeterminate age. And so, they put the plan in action, and they return to the Tardis after another adventure, victory carrying them through the doors at having saved more lives, weariness following soon after, and instead of being ushered off to bed, they instead request to be dropped off at Graham’s, to have a break and have a ‘proper sarnie’, in Graham’s words. The Doctor blinks at them for a moment before she nods and offers them an, ‘of course! Can’t have you going without a proper sardine, Graham.’

“Sarnie.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Yaz runs a hand over one of the golden glowing pillars, drawing strength from the ship’s warmth as the Doctor sets the coordinates, and, whilst it might all be in her head, she thinks she feels the pillar grow warmer under her touch, as if the ship is lending Yaz her encouragement.

They land with a thump and Graham winces. Yaz laughs, hoping for his sake that no more furniture has been squashed. Doors creak open and at the threshold Ryan gives Yaz a determined nod before following his grandad out into their front room.

“You coming?” She asks the Doctor as she slowly saunters down to the doors, looking back at her with a warm smile.

“Yeah. In a mo’.” The Doctor says, eyes looking down at something on the console as she fiddles with something, lost in thought. Yaz bites back a sigh.

“Doctor?”

“Yeah?” The other woman looks at her, eyebrows raised in expectation of another question. However, when she meets Yaz’s gaze, _finally,_ and sees the hope and the warmth Yaz is trying her hardest to express, caught in a moment of stillness, _finally,_ her own flicker with doubt and uncertainty. Yaz watches a mental battle play out across her face in the blinking of those eyes and the small indent in her brow, and she grabs onto that uncertainty with both hands.

“I’m sure Graham will do ya a fried egg sandwich, if you ask.” She tempts with a smile. The Doctor’s eyes flicker to her again, and they trail across her face, as if reading Yaz like a book, and for the first time in weeks something in them melts the ice she has been protecting herself with. She smiles back.

“Yeah. You’re right, that’s a very tempting offer.” She straightens and makes her way to Yaz, shoving her hands in her pockets. Yaz feels victory crawl its way up her spine, sending warmth right to her chest. Her heart beats faster. The Doctor still looks uncertain but at least she has agreed to this.

“Come on, then.” She says, and she places a hand on the Doctor’s back, a comforting gesture. If the other woman knows what Yaz and the boys are doing, she does not let on… maybe, Yaz hopes, she has been waiting for it, for she does not resist Yaz’s touch, and in fact relaxes under it. She allows Yaz to guide her out of the Tardis, the door creaking shut behind them.

Luckily for Graham, Yaz sees no squashed furniture. The Tardis has landed in the front of his living room, as it did last time, and Yaz can hear sounds of crockery being moved about and cupboards being opened and closed coming from the kitchen down the hallway. The light in the house is a warm glow, the light outside wan and grey. Classic Sheffield. Ryan pops his head around the doorframe, Yaz noting the way his eyes light up at the sight of the Doctor. She shoots him a wink.

“Anyone for a cuppa?”

Yaz nods and the Doctor’s raises a lazy finger in request, eyes roaming over the space of Graham’s front room. “Could we request a couple of fried eggs sandwiches, as well?” Yaz requests, and Ryan’s eyes light up even more.

“I’ll make that three. Coming up!” He says, turning on his heel and heading back towards the kitchen.

Yaz and the Doctor are alone, as per the plan.

The Doctor wanders further into the room, looking with a detached interest at certain bits and bobs dotted around the room. When the other woman moves away Yaz realises her hand was still resting against her back; the air her palm is now bare to feels cold.

The Doctor falters a little over a picture of Grace, and her face twists with a pain which Yaz has seen too much over the last few weeks. Her own heart sighs at the image of Grace, caught in her infectious joy forever through the photograph, but she cannot linger on it for long: their plan is going in wholly the wrong direction. 

Yaz mentally twiddles her thumbs as she finds something that might draw the Doctor into seeking more openly the comfort Yaz’s presence gives her, eyes scanning the room. They alight on something which they normally skate right by.

A piano sits against one wall of Graham’s front room, a light coating of dust covering the closed cover of deep polished oak. The older man had boasted childhood lessons which had turned it into a hobby ever since, and that he had inherited the piano from his mother, taking comfort in playing when he had the energy when he was going through chemotherapy. Upon marrying Grace, the piano had followed, and remained in the house ever since.

It looks lonely, and Yaz wanders up to it, running a finger through the dust as an idea begins to grow. She has no idea whether this will work, but at least it will figure as a talking point. 

“Graham’s infamous piano.” She says, and the Doctor turns as she lifts up the cover with a croak of wood complaining like an old man. Yaz tentatively presses down on one of the keys, and winces when it comes back flat.

A shuffle of noise behind her and then the Doctor is there, sonic in one hand, lifting up the top of the piano with the other. She sticks the sonic into the depths of the piano, and Yaz hears a muffled familiar whirring. The Doctor pulls the sonic back out and replaces the lid, careful not to trap her fingers.

“Try it now.” She says to Yaz.

Yaz does, and this time the key which she presses sings a sweet note through the front room. She smiles at the Doctor, who returns it with a small one of her own.

Yaz pulls out the small stool which rests under the piano, and she sits herself down on one end, purposefully leaving a space for the Doctor to take. One she hopefully will take. Yaz’s fingers hover over the keys; she really has no clue what she is doing, she has never played the piano in her life, but she delicately runs her fingers up the piano, making a scale. She glances up at the Doctor, who is watching her closely, expression indecipherable. Yaz returns her attention back to the piano and makes her next move, throwing her fingers down heavily on the keys so they play out a loud and discordant tune. She laughs, and when she looks up once more at the Doctor, she sees a smile on the other woman’s face, although her eyes are distant, thoughts elsewhere. After a moment’s hesitation she stuffs her sonic back in her pocket and shucks off her coat, throwing it over the sofa arm behind them. Then she takes a seat next to Yaz.

The stool is small enough that their sides are touching, from hip to thigh, shoulder brushing shoulder. The Doctor runs colder than humans, but just the feel of her next to Yaz and Yaz feels herself being warmed from the inside, swimming in the warm waters of her emotions.

The Doctor’s fingers, long and spindly, rest over the keys, and Yaz lets her own retreat to her lap, content to watch whatever the other woman is doing. They caress the keys with a familiarity, ghosting over notes that might be played where she to simply press down. Yaz watches carefully, keeping her posture and her expression relaxed and easy, simply waiting, hoping this might be the something that causes the break. Another moment of hesitation, and then the Doctor is pressing down on the keys, playing out a simple chord.

Yaz watches as her enthusiasm grows, as long fingers move quicker, finding new chords, testing out her ability. Yaz would say she is stunned that the Doctor can play piano, but really, she is not surprised one bit.

“Learnt from the best, did you?” She teases the Doctor when the other woman’s fingers rest relaxed over the keys. The Doctor looks at her from the corner of her eye, eyebrow raised.

“Chopin himself. He had a long waiting list for lessons, but I knew George Sand at the time, so I got to skip the line.” She says proudly, and Yaz delights in that familiar boasting.

“So, can you play me something?” She asks, and the Doctor’s eyes light up at the chance to show off, twiddling her fingers for a moment as she thinks before they settle on the keys once more.

Yaz is rooted to the seat on which she sits as she watches the Doctor play, listens to the notes which fill the room like a cloud. She immediately feels herself transported, something unknotting within her, the weight of her worry, perhaps, as the Doctor performs, the piece dancing the line between hope and despair, evoking dewy spring at one time, and then blustery autumn at another. Through the song, Yaz feels the wonders of the world fill the room, as if the Doctor is dedicating it to the Earth itself, the planet she loves, and despite herself Yaz feels tears sting her eyes.

The Doctor herself gets caught up in the playing, fingers striking the keys with more and more enthusiasm as she plays. Ryan pops his head around the door at one moment, watching for a second, until he catches Yaz’s eye and gives her a short nod and a smile and departs once again.

The song finishes, and the ghostly echo of the final notes rings out into the room for a moment after. The Doctor’s fingers still over the keys but remain caught in their final position. She is breathing heavily, an indecipherable look in her eyes. Yaz hesitates, reluctant to break the silence. She swallows, forcing herself to speak.

“That was-”

She is interrupted when the Doctor suddenly launches into another song, face steely, eyes determined. Yaz does not recognise this one in any way, but she feels a sense of foreboding creeping up her spine, raising the hairs there as the Doctor plays a tune of sorrow, sharpened with octaves of slicing pain. It is mournful, despairing, and Yaz sucks in a deep breath as she feels the full weight of whatever the Doctor is carrying settle around her now in the music which fills the room. The Doctor’s eyes are closed, she is not looking at what she plays and yet the song is perfect in its pain, and Yaz feels a heavy stone sink within her as she realises the depths of all the Doctor has been feeling and hiding from them in the last few weeks; it is more than despair for an old friend turned into an enemy, for his return, it is a feeling so great it could move mountains, raise oceans and let them fall again in raging tsunamis. The Doctor could create storms with her emotions, and instead she is creating music, playing from her hearts. Yaz takes a step out of her body and wonders how ever she got here, to being in love with an alien who, like the Master, has the universe at her fingertips, but instead speaks her pain through the keys of a piano. Music, Yaz thinks, can be the most powerful thing.

The music cuts off abruptly as the Doctor’s eyes fly open and she gasps, her fingers curling into her palms, her breathing faster, heavier. Yaz frowns, and tentatively lays a hand on the other woman’s arm.

“Doctor.” She whispers, voice croaking. Her breath ghosts through the Doctor’s hair, lifting a few stray strands.

“Yaz.” The Doctor replies, wetting her lips with her tongue. She turns to Yaz, meeting her eyes, and Yaz feels caught by her gaze as she sees an unfiltered pain in the Doctor’s eye, something so helpless and lost. She gets lost in their depths, swimming in them like she does in her feelings for the woman sat next to her, trying to decipher what lies beyond that pain, what causes it; it is enough, however, she feels, that the Doctor is baring it to her now, no more hunched shoulders, no console to bury herself in. Yaz stares back, conveying her strength, and the care which fuels it, care for the Doctor. Her hand trails down the Doctor’s arm to cover her hand, wrapping her fingers around the other woman’s.

The Doctor lets out a shaky breath, and the silence in the room which had followed the Doctor’s performance feels thicker now, heavier, laying on them like a blanket, but not one weighed down with the demands of telling Yaz what is wrong, of demanding why she is behaving as she has for the past few weeks, but one which reassures her, wrapping her up, Yaz’s way of saying ‘I’m here for you’.

The Doctor’s eyes trail from Yaz’s eyes to her lips and then back again, and Yaz’s heart leaps like a frog in her chest, but the Doctor does not follow through, the moment is too tentative and tender; Yaz hopes there might be time to pursue that moment later, but what matters now is the Doctor is seeking comfort with her here now, letting her in in a way she feels comfortable with.

The Doctor’s gaze travels to their conjoined hands, and Yaz feels the other woman’s hand turn in hers, so that her palm is upward, and she entwines her fingers with Yaz’s. They sit there for a moment, holding each other’s hands, until the Doctor whispers into the room, “There’s another song I’d like to play.”

Yaz nods, no words left to give, only the reassurance of her presence, her love. The Doctor must understand it, though, and for a brief moment Yaz feels something brush up against her mind, familiar and warm, but it is gone the moment their hands unclasp, and she returns her hand to her lap. After a moment’s hesitation, however, she lightly moves it so that the tips of her fingers are touching the Doctor leg. The other woman looks to her, and she offers Yaz a smile, which whilst small, bears her gratitude. She does not protest at the fingers on her leg, and instead arranges her hands to the right position on the piano and begins to play.

On the Tardis, the Doctor has played by her own rules in preoccupying herself with fiddling with the Tardis, pulling levers, pressing buttons. Now, she is engaging in Yaz’s game, playing the keys on the piano, and in the process Yaz begins to _feel_ all the Doctor has not said, the emotions cramped up inside her. She is opening up to Yaz and in turn allowing the other woman the privilege of being by her side as she does so.

The tune she plays this time is much more hopeful, and the Doctor seems to cross lightyears, travel between constellations across the length of the keyboard, taking them on more adventures through time and space even as they sit stationary on the stool. Yaz feels a smile pull her lips upwards, and joy sits within her heart as she is reminded of the many good times they have shared, their peculiar family in a police box hurtling through the stars, and she comes to rest her head on the Doctor’s shoulder as the other woman plays, breathing in her familiar and comforting scent. The Doctor allows her to, and Yaz feels as if hours pass as she allows herself to lean into all the Doctor says through the song, musical notes expressing much better than words the weight of what it is to live her life.

Yaz might not recognise the undercurrent, the notes which simmer with that pain and sorrow in the Doctor’s eye, but she can say at least, here, that she has heard them, and she is there for the Doctor whenever she needs.

And in return, the Doctor is there for her, too, letting Yaz rest on her shoulder, and, when Yaz has closed her eyes and has sunk into a half-awake state, captured by the music the Doctor plays, brushing a soft kiss to her hairline. Yaz pretends not to feel it, but in reality, she does.

It feels like a promise. A promise that darkness never sustains, that Yaz will never be alone, so long as the Doctor is by her side, so long as there are still stars to show her and stars to play on the keys of a piano in their friend’s front room on a grey and rainy afternoon. A promise of the universe and more. A promise that Yaz can demonstrate, too, that the Doctor never need be alone. Yaz will be by her side, for as long as she can be.

She hopes that might be for forever. She hopes the melody never ends. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I would love to hear what you thought of it! Thank you to @verthirstykhan on Twitter for her help with the title!  
> There's a fic which runs along similar lines to this which I absolutely love and I think subconciously inspired this one, 'The Concert' by playswithworms, so I would 100% recommend reading that! 
> 
> Tumblr: walker-lister  
> Twitter: @walkerlister1


End file.
